


Under every grief

by impalabro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, but slightly fantastical depending on your stance, continuation of his last vow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:25:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalabro/pseuds/impalabro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon Sherlock's return from his four minute exile, John Watson discovers that the detective brings more than deductions to his doorstep. He brings trouble, and the marital happiness he finds in Mary is buried all too soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_A skylark wounded in the wing,  
a cherubim does cease to sing._

_____

 

He’d tried not to sound like he’d spend the last four minutes with tears tracking down his face, he really had, but there had been no fooling Mycroft. He’d always been able to read Sherlock, every note in his voice he was trying to suppress, every crack in that carefully maintained visage of his, since they were kids. 

“Dear me, you’ve really let sentiment get the better of you,” Mycroft sounded almost sorry over the phone. “You know, I would have almost certainly pulled you out after five months anyway, so I don’t understand why these histrionics are necessary.” 

Sherlock hung up. Mycroft did like to pretend that emotions were beyond him, but the younger Holmes brother knew better; he knew Mycroft knew better too. Sherlock could see the nearing figures of John and Mary as the jet turned around to meet the asphalt again, and wondered what was going to happen if he had actually returned. Moriarty. Even as he considered the name, the wounds he had sustained while he’d been away twinged with faint acknowledgement. An individual or organisation could simply be using his image as a face to provoke fear, but Sherlock couldn’t be certain of it, and therein lay the problem. He had spent two years estranged from a flat in a city he had grown attached to and a best friend he had learnt to love. The least he wanted was some finality. 

 _Look at you,_ he heard his mother’s voice reverberating through his head, stroking through his hair, _I’ve never seen you so happy. Look at all the beautiful friends you have_ , and then he was eleven years old again, trying to shrug off the weight of solitude as he walked home from the emptying school, a whirlwind that was too intelligent and too abrasive to play with the other kids. 

“Did you miss me?” were the first words he spoke to John as he stepped off the stairs to meet him on the runway. 

“That is not funny in the slightest.” John laughed and clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder while he and Mary exchanged smiling looks.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you,” Sherlock said, in a way that would only be self-conscious if you knew how he usually behaved, and John wasn’t offered any time to guess as he was pulled into a hug. Sherlock had read up on how to give the perfect hug once, and had filed away the information for later retrieval. Three seconds, medium pressure, head rested gently on the receiver’s shoulders. Truth be told, it was difficult not to crush John beneath his arm, considering the fury of emotion twisting through his head. “I felt it would have been a touch too sombre a note to leave you with.” 

Sherlock had always been able to say the right thing, to seem cool and detached when exactly the opposite was true. He was quite afraid of the day he’d forget how to exercise the skill, because it was either all or nothing. He could handle the ‘nothing’ with great ease and confidence, but was deathly vulnerable to the ‘all’. 

“At least you were only gone five minutes this time,” interjected Mary cheerfully. Sherlock looked down, the corners of his mouth tickling, to see John smiling broadly and directly back at him, compensating for the faces that should have been there when he found out that Sherlock had survived the fall. In retrospect, it was easy to forgive him, because once he’d shed the arrogant, self-obsessed shell he liked to tuck himself into, Sherlock was a man with tremendous heart. 

_You've lived a large part of your life in the absence of love. You never learnt. You bottled it up and released it all at once._

“Right,” John stepped back, clearing his throat, and straightened his jacket, “what are we going to do about Moriarty?” 

“The first step,” Sherlock said, “is simple. We need to ascertain whether or not the culprit behind the broadcast is indeed Moriarty. And already you find yourself five steps behind in your thinking.” 

John sighed. 

“For example, has it crossed your mind that I might be behind all of this? It’s a perfectly logical conclusion to come to considering the circumstances of my exile.” 

“But you’re not behind any of this, are you Sherlock?” John said wearily, “because you’d have told us by now if you were. You’d be a smug bastard.” 

Sherlock grinned. "Very perceptive, John." John was still very much a conductor of light, but on occasion he would himself burst into brilliance. Only for a few seconds every so often, but the universe appreciated those moments like nothing else. They would draw an internal smile or catch of breath, even from the man who was so unimpressed by the majority of the human population. 

The journey back to the flat was by no means quiet. The hatchback filled up with the combined wits of John and Mary playing off each other effortlessly in the front. Sherlock could not help but keep his head tilted slightly towards the window of the backseat while the other two conversed, unable to be infected by their good humour. He still managed to feel a pang of sadness under his ribcage when the time came for the Watson family car to be emptied of its passenger. Though John had sworn it wouldn’t happen, it had happened, and Sherlock knew it couldn’t be long before he would have to learn to be alone again. He wouldn’t allow it. This time he found a voice, despite the unfamiliarity of the sentence he reached for.  

“Actually—do you want to stay the night?” 

John exchanged looks with his wife, clearly both coming to the same conclusion. Their house with the white walls and delicately-patterned duvet covers would still be standing in the morning. He hadn’t slept in Baker Street for too long, far too long, and part of him couldn’t wait to get back to the relative disarray of the flat which, in spite of the body parts and the mess, gave off an inescapable feeling of home. 

“Count us both in.” 

Something resurfaced in Sherlock’s demeanour and a warm smile spread across his face that he failed to hide. “I’ll order a takeaway.” 

Once they’d settled in the living room, Mary insisted on bringing out a pack of cards and went on to demonstrate her unnerving talent for poker, with an open-mouthed John by her side as she turned out royal flush after royal flush. Sherlock, although stiff-lipped at the idea of being outwitted at a game he’d previously found devastatingly untaxing, still found himself happy whenever Mary revealed her hand and revelled in John’s ashen expression. 

“What happened to focusing on Moriarty?” John asked as they started their fifty-seventh game. He sounded faintly irritated, undoubtedly as a consequence of coming stone dead last in fifty six consecutive games of poker. Mary and Sherlock were drawn at twenty-eight games each, and John was determined to break into the winner’s circle. “Actually, never mind. This game is too bloody important right now.” 

As if the higher powers had schemed to deny John his win, the phone rang a moment after he’d finished speaking. Sherlock let it ring a few times and John wondered if he was almost reluctant to receive whoever was at the other end of the line. 

“Homeless network. One of my markers was behaving strangely,” he announced after he’d put the phone down with a scowl.   

“So what do we do?” asked Mary. Sherlock glanced over in her direction, at her baby bump which looked like it was trying to break out of her cardigan. Looking blissfully spirited, she had her cards balanced on top of it. 

“You should be resting. It’s hardly safe practice to be running around London with a little one on the way.” 

“Wise advice from Uncle Sherlock,” John said, grinning, and the epithet quivered in the air. Sherlock found himself hanging onto it and, for a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or what he’d been talking about. Never mind his disagreement with the cumbersome chains of domesticity or the monotonous routine of married life; this was something else, and he could almost sympathise with the urge to settle down into the comfort of meniality. 

"Detective's orders." 

The phone started to ring again and with a huff Sherlock lifted it to his ear. He nodded periodically, his expression grim throughout, and once he’d hung up he retrieved his coat and his scarf, wrapping it around his neck in the usual brisk fashion. 

“We’ll have to let John win another time, I’m afraid. London’s calling.” He liked to add a little embellishment sometimes, knowing full well how self-important it made him sound. Without another word, he crossed the threshold and took the stairs down two at a time. The door crashed shut, prompting a cry from Mrs Hudson downstairs. 

“He does like this whole saving the world thing, doesn’t he?” 

“Between you and me, I don’t think he does it for the world’s sake. Though I think he’s learning to.” 

The clock ticked through the hours, the numbers blurring in John’s eyes as he tried to stay awake, awaiting Sherlock’s return as he guarded his own room which was currently being occupied by his wife. The rhythmic sounds of her breathing were enough to keep him conscious.   

A few breaths later, a tap on his shoulder and the feeling of someone hovering over him in close proximity woke him. John had inevitably succumbed to sleep and had woken to Sherlock’s agitated expression coming into focus. Morning light seeped through the window as John realised that Mary’s breathing had probably been too rhythmic.   

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he said quietly, turning away from John. Sherlock’s presence brought in a draught of cold air from outside that had clung to his coat. His nose and face were tinged pink. John reached for his pocket, pulling out his phone, and found twenty seven missed calls and about as many texts. Half of them weren’t from Sherlock. 

His heart pumped a little more quickly as he opened one of the texts. 

_I’m so sorry for your loss._


	2. Chapter 2

_The owl that calls upon the night  
speaks the unbeliever's fright._

_______  

Sherlock’s ragged breathing tore through the relative calm of the city at two o’clock in the morning. Some resolute faith in him lay unshaken by the news that had been propelled down the phone in Mycroft’s calculated vocabulary.

 _I’m afraid the situation is worse than imagined_ , came his brother’s voice, somehow managing to convey palpable danger in the few words he chose. _John’s close family and friends are being targeted._ _We’re not certain to what end._

He had proven to himself his impulsiveness when he’d run from the flat mere seconds after Mycroft’s call, climbing into the black car that had drawn up on Baker Street. Inside, he was greeted by a colourless reproach that dulled his senses into surprised submission. 

“It would not have been a gross misuse of your time to perhaps ascertain the security of the situation before jumping into the first little familial gathering that presented itself.” 

Sherlock looked out of the window, then down at his feet. With 221B fast receding in the distance, he felt more and more like he didn’t know himself. It had become almost difficult to separate the flat from his identity when he was away from it. 

“I—didn’t think,” he admitted, in a tone verging on bitter. “I thought you were handling it. Tell me about John.” 

Mycroft’s sharp reply cut across him. “Surely you’re the expert on John Watson? After brushing aside the perilous risk to his life that Moriarty’s reappearance might signal, because you thought you knew better?” 

“It wasn’t like that,” Sherlock rebutted, immediately regretting it. He’d stupidly lowered his shields and steeled himself for Mycroft’s attack. _It wasn’t like that_ , a younger Sherlock would whine as his older, better, stronger brother span deceitful stories to their parents. 

Instead, Mycroft sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. 

“Where do we start? His father’s bank accounts have been frozen. His sister Harriet has been missing for a few hours already.” 

Harriet. Harry. The same sister who hadn’t turned up at the wedding; the sister who had given away her phone to John, the very phone which had allowed Sherlock to impress him. He’d never even met her; John would bring regular reports of her stints in rehab or her cancellations of whatever lunch dates he had tried in vain to set into concrete. 

“So it’s definitely Moriarty?” 

“Which one of the two of us is the detective?” said Mycroft, in Sherlock’s view, quite petulantly. Sherlock was not in the right kind of mood for this. Generally, he preferred his questions not to be answered by the raising of more questions.     

“I was sceptical. Still am.” 

“I’m afraid you will have to stay that way. We have nothing to suggest that it was and nothing to the contrary either. The culprit has done well to evade our investigations thus far, and I assure you they have been thorough.” Sherlock had counted on a dimmer class of criminal, but it was looking to be unlikely. 

“Someone within the government, then, or at least someone who knows how you people work? I find it hard to believe there’s no tracking them at all. Or perhaps middle age is making you incompetent, dear brother?” 

Mycroft chose to ignore the comment. He had been looking noticeably peakier, but Sherlock had attributed it to the recent uproar the Russians had made when they produced correspondence heavily suggestive of intimate homosexual relations between the Prime Minister and the Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs. Mycroft’s plight had not really been helped by Sherlock’s texts, which had been as snide as ever.   

“We received a ransom note about half an hour ago demanding, rather singularly, a photograph with the legendary Sherlock Holmes as well as an hour of his time, in return for the safe return of John’s sister. So you are being driven to the address kindly enclosed in the envelope.” For once, Sherlock did not question Mycroft’s judgement. Perhaps because he had so many things occupying his mind space that he felt he was being suffocated from the inside; perhaps because he was tired of playing nemesis with someone who was clearly his equal, sometimes superior, depending on the day, no matter how belittled he felt by Mycroft. 

The car soon turned off on a questionable road that was indicated by a rusty metal sign which, against all the laws of physics, flapped pitiably in the wind. 

“This is cheerful,” said Mycroft drily, “and as far as I’m going. I’m sorry to announce that you’re going to have to walk the road and a half extra. We have men covering the entire building, but our note-writer may be aware of it. Proceed with caution.” Was Sherlock Holmes mistaken, or had he heard a touch of anxiousness among the instruction? _Or maybe you’re listening too hard_ , he thought. Silently, Mycroft produced the piece of paper with the address printed on for no more than two seconds. One of the perks of having a brother with a good-as-photographic memory. “Try not to get killed,” he added, pressing a digital camera into Sherlock’s palm. 

The icy air prickled on his face as he cautiously walked the hundred or so metres with the camera tucked into his coat pocket. He thought of John and Mary back at the flat, how they’d stay up for a bit and chatter to each other about something meaningless, laugh through the day’s happenings and fall asleep content with themselves, Mary having at last regained John’s trust and John having escaped the absence of his friend for another six months. Sherlock did not quite know how to feel about this anonymous figure hiding behind Moriarty’s screen because they’d inadvertently effected his rescue.

No, not ‘rescue’. That wouldn’t do. It was inexpressible, truly, how unlikely a saviour he had attracted. He’d been trying to keep a handle on the sanity he had remaining on the plane, during those few minutes when he knew with certainty that he could not possibly run away from the punitive exile the law had ruled necessary for killing one man and liberating another with one bullet.    

So it was with a surge of apprehensive excitement that he stopped before the door of the building. It was, to all intents and purposes, a regular house. A tad on the worn side, but altogether respectable. A cursory inspection of the door revealed a small note taped next to the doorknob. 

_If you are Holmes, knock thrice. If you are not, gladly remove yourself._

This was unexpected. He was prompted to recall a case – highly unorthodox – during which he and John had been led on an elaborately planned scavenger hunt culminating in a Western style face off in an abandoned warehouse off the M5. It proved to be incredibly frustrating in hindsight, not least because John had insisted on typing up the case in full and had continually badgered Sherlock for a full week because he’d predictably forgotten what had happened. He hoped that this would not be a repeat of the other. 

He rapped the knocker three times, and stated in the calmest voice he could put on, “Sherlock Holmes. I believe I’m being followed.” 

“I’m not one for tasteless tricks, Mr Holmes,” came a distorted female voice as the door was opened. Sherlock could make out a shadow thrown by the streetlight onto the carpet inside, but nothing distinguishing. 

“It’s not a trick, I assure you. You effectively recalled me from a banishment endorsed by numerous high-seated members of Parliament. Did you not give a thought to the repercussions?” It was a marvel how he could shrug on this shell of logic and coldness without even pausing for breath, though she did not seem to be buying into the deception. There was no reply as he walked blindly through the hallway towards the small rectangle of light some metres away. 

His head jerked forwards without warning, an intense pain flashing across his eyes as the visuals tore open a memory he had kept hidden at the bottom of a drawer in some room. 

A more carefree Sherlock had been awoken by the sound of shuffling feet in the kitchen downstairs and he’d padded out of his room rubbing his eyes. He’d taken the stairs down slowly, gripping the banister tightly with little hands. The lights were off and had to stay off because _Mummy doesn’t want you running up the electricity bill because you were afraid of monsters that don’t exist_. The only guide he had was the light coming from the kitchen, offering reward for the perilous journey in the dark. A low whining noise grew louder and would not stop no matter how hard he’d held his hands over his ears, and when he’d reached the tiled floor the friendly pile of fur was lying prostrate next to his water bowl. The moment he’d noticed the vet in attendance with her plastic suitcase and syringe, he had known. 

No. Not now. He shook himself a little, running a quick hand through his hair. Upon reaching the room he was bathed in sudden light, one that revealed a woman with hands and feet bound trying to shuffle away from the figure standing over her. 

“Did you bring a camera, Mr Holmes?” the other woman asked, without turning around. “Of course you did. Come over here and give it to me. I think we’ll include Harry in the photo too, don’t you?”


	3. Chapter 3

_It is right it should be so:_

_Man was made for joy and woe;_

_______

Better not to speak. Let the criminal think they’re having their way; that was the advice he’d heard repeated during many negotiations led by Lestrade. He reached into his pocket for the silver Canon and handed it to her. 

“Will you do me the courtesy of showing your face?” 

The woman scoffed. “I’d have liked to spare you the confusion.” She turned slowly on her heels, smiling a twisted smile as her eyes met Sherlock’s. 

Denial came, then wary acknowledgement. What duplicitous scheme was this? She was identical to Harry Watson in all respects; save the inexpressible evil radiating from her features that was absent in the Harry cowering in the corner of the room. Her mousy hair was combed neatly behind her ears. She was, objectively at least, rather beautiful. Shame about the kidnapping.

A few seconds later, neither party breaking the silent scrutiny with which they had been regarding each other, the malevolence vanished as quickly as he had noticed it on her face. Dropping to the floor, she began to empty Harry’s bag of its contents until she found what she’d been looking for. Holding the phone with suddenly shaking hands, she switched it on, dialled a number and pressed it to her ear.

"H-Hello? Police, please.” Her tone was positively obsequious. “A robber…in my house. I think—I think I’ve killed her, but oh! I didn’t mean to, I didn’t, I didn’t…she has back up, I can see them, a whole team of them outside, at least ten of them, I think they’re going to do something awful to me...” She recited the address, the same one Sherlock had seen on a scrap of paper some ten minutes ago.

Moments after she’d hung up, the façade slid away. “So, _William_ , a photo if you please,” and some part of Sherlock froze at a name he hadn’t been called for decades, “for my personal collection. Don’t be shy; you have precisely nineteen minutes until you’ll be standing over Harry Watson’s dead body.” He was aware of edging the fringes of something special. A killer who kept photographic trophies? It was clear she had no intention of releasing John’s sister, but he was reluctant to try to use physical violence as a means of rescuing her. The similarity in appearance to the other Harry was also disconcerting enough that he felt he couldn’t be sure of the kind of people he was around.  

“Am I to assume that you are behind Moriarty’s reinstatement?” he asked as he shuffled slowly towards her, all the time with Harry’s safety at the back of his mind. _Solve the crime. Save the life_. There was no reason why he couldn’t do both. He could do it easily, teach himself to consider the practicalities of the situation whilst factoring in the fragility of the victim, as opposed to the total detachment John had often disapproved of.

She smirked, eyeing the man before her with disinterest. “I hope you understand what you’re asking.” She brought the camera up, and Sherlock allowed his limbs to be positioned by her. His eyes darted to her face and back to her hands, her nails extending out in perfectly manicured ovals, and just as she snapped the picture he was close enough to get hold of one of her hairs left behind on her sleeve. He had once spent an entire two weeks pick-pocketing tourists and subsequently returning the stolen items, and he’d had plenty of practice on Lestrade too; the box of police badges tucked under his bed was proof enough of his ability to go uncaught.

“By all means, test my DNA. All it will prove is that I am Harry Watson. She is me. It’s a clever little trick, don’t you think? Have I got you thinking yet?”

“I certainly believe I have underestimated your time-keeping skills. You asked for an hour; about forty minutes has passed and you don’t seem to be any closer to an aim than you were. One of the conditions of my arrival was that Harry would be returned safe. You appear to be bent on violating this condition.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “The rest of the time is for your benefit. I am well aware of the lengthy deductions you so like to burden your acquaintances with.”

“Why send the note through Mycroft and not directly to me?” For this, Sherlock could find no reason. Even if John had seen the envelope, he was not in the habit of opening Sherlock’s mail. Sherlock however had, until late, sometimes steamed open some of John’s letters to see if he had deduced correctly their contents. He had never quite caught on until that unfortunate instance when Sherlock had let slip that John was due a trip to the sperm bank just as John was reading the selfsame words.

“Why pretend to be John’s sister?”

At this, she beamed horribly, something in her demeanour shifting towards the wicked, and shot Harry through the head. The body remained with her back resting against the chest of drawers, eyes open and slightly out of focus. She seemed to have been expecting it, wishing it to happen, for her hands were brought together in a pleading, submissive gesture inside the rope.

“You’re right. There’s no use pretending now. Now I can be her. Not that I want to be.” The incongruity of the comment registered with him.

Had nineteen minutes really passed so quickly while Sherlock had been hard at work in his own head? The head that had remained complete and untouched while a bullet had pierced the other one, its contents plugged by a neat little hole, diameter five millimetres, in the centre of the forehead. _She knows her alcohol, I’ll give her that, but she’s really hopeless when it comes to everything else._ John had told him that once, years ago. The sentence was pulling itself out of forgetfulness, and the stunning clarity it provoked in Sherlock set him in motion. It was to be a chase, he’d decided as much. When running down a criminal on the streets of London, nine times out of ten he had the advantage. He knew every shortcut, byways he could charge down and crevices in which he could hide temporarily.

Before he could initiate it, though, a terrible flurry of voices rose outside the building seemingly on all sides, and he understood what it meant. The drawl of the sirens of an extraordinary number of police cars. The police force, some twenty strong at least, had met Mycroft’s men.

“And for my last trick…” 

“Neat.” The police would assume that they were the backup thieves the fake Harry had told them about. Mycroft’s men would assume the worst of the police. The time this clash would buy her depended on the extent of the mistrust the two parties beheld each other with.

She grinned. “ _Go, bid the soldiers shoot."_ She lifted the gun, the swing of the barrel marking the bullet’s path, and pulled the trigger.

She’d removed the silencer, and the echo of the shot silenced the array of voices, which turned into violent knocking on doors and windows, and the repetitive sound of locks being broken and doors kicked down. Sherlock was standing with his back to the doorway, within the line of sight of anyone who entered the house. The rise and fall of his shoulders was the only indication that he was not a statue.

 

For a few seconds, the heavy tread of footsteps crashing around him was dialled down to a low drone of background noise.

 

On the fifth second, muted.  


End file.
